


2014 Leverage Secret Santa 2014 - Three Fics

by aunt_zelda



Category: Leverage
Genre: Action & Romance, Alcohol, Angst, Dubious Consent, Huddling For Warmth, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jealousy, M/M, Multi, One Night Stands, Open Marriage, Post-Series, Power Imbalance, Pre-Series, Slow Build, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 21:20:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2788157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aunt_zelda/pseuds/aunt_zelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three fics for the 2014 Leverage Secret Santa 2014.</p>
<p>1) Eliot/Moreau. Eliot has a horrible Christmas on Moreau's Bond Villain-esque island. </p>
<p>2) Detective Bonanno/Shelley. The developing relationship between the two. Involves gratuitous references to Boston, romance cliches, and a vespa chase. </p>
<p>3) Eliot/Quinn. Post-mission sex, huddling for warmth, references to the team OT3, angst on Quinn's part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eliot Spencer/Damien Moreau

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boundsofdecency](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boundsofdecency/gifts).



> Well, these were fun to write. Hope they are enjoyed. 
> 
>  
> 
> **The trigger warnings and tags specific to the first fic are:** Pre-Series, Alcohol, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con (which is one offhand comment on a phone call), and Power Imbalance.
> 
> **The trigger warnings and tags specific to the second fic are:** Slow Build. Open Marriage. Action  & Romance, Vacation.
> 
> **The trigger warnings and tags specific to the third fic are:** Post-Series, Angst, Jealousy, Huddling For Warmth, One Night Stands.

Eliot completely forgets that it’s Christmas until he notices the calendar in Moreau’s office one day. 

They’re lying low, a rare occurrence now that Moreau wields exceptional power, but the entire Russian government is targeting him after a certain deal, and even Moreau has his limits. For now, at least. Eliot suspects that within the next three to five years, Moreau will be the one causing governments to flee, not the other way around. 

The island base is one of Moreau’s many luxurious indulgences. Very limited access due to coral reefs and gun turrets at strategic locations, patrols of armed guards, and, usually, several scantily clad-women lounging around. 

Eliot sometimes wonders which Bond movies Moreau watched as a kid, and if he’s aware of how obviously they’ve influenced him. It’s not his job to voice such question though, so he keeps his mouth shut. 

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to do that. He knew, taking this job, what the risks were, what would be expected of him. At least, the thought he did. Now, he’s not so certain. Some of the jobs he’s worked have been weighing on him like his time with the Army never did. He’s had nightmares, bad ones, and started feeling uneasy when Moreau mentions new work ahead. 

He can’t be losing his edge, he’s too young for that. No, it’s gotta be something else. Damned if Eliot knows what, though. He keeps worrying at it, pulling on the threads, and eventually it’s gonna become clear to him. Eliot just needs to give it time. 

Moreau is in a foul mood, which isn’t unusual, but he’s especially sour today. The helicopter with his bevy of young models has been delayed due to a storm. Some assassination attempt didn’t go as planned in Russia. And the storm is keeping Moreau from going to Russia to handle matters personally, or send some of his bodyguards to go deal with the Russian problems. 

Eliot scrounges in the kitchen and manages to make himself a halfway decent Christmas dinner. The spice cabinet was atrociously understocked but he has potatoes, he has meat, he even has a can of cranberry sauce from a shelf that miraculously hasn’t yet expired. And, to make everything better, there’s some wine. Not the good stuff, but not the cheap swill from his days in basic training either. 

Eliot probably drinks more than he should of the wine, but it’s Christmas, and he’d rather sleep without the risk of nightmares tonight. They’ve been getting worse. Or he’s been getting worse at controlling himself. He’s not really sure which is which. 

One of the other guards comes by as Eliot’s clearing the plates. “Moreau wants to see you. In his office.”

Eliot shrugs and heads off, steady on his feet but feeling a little lightheaded. 

Moreau is on a conference call, yelling in Russian. He waves Eliot in and motions for him to shut the door.

“ _One moment,_ ” Moreau presses his phone to his shoulder and eyes Eliot. “On your knees, I think.”

Eliot blinks, then sinks down. He’s been expecting something like this for a while now. He’s seen Moreau with the occasional man, seen one of the other guards leaving Moreau’s rooms late at night or early in the morning a few times. Eliot knows how he looks. He’s gone down this road before a few times, in the Army and on leave. Just never with a boss. Eliot has managed to avoid this kind of a power play until now, and he does not relish the thought of those days coming to an end.

“ _Now, let me tell you what you are going to do,_ ” Moreau is on the phone again, unbuckling his belt one-handed. “ _You are going to find that little bitch Dimitri was fucking when he should have been keeping watch, you are going to set up a camera and do what you do best to her, for as long as you like, and you are going to send it to Dimitri,_ ” Moreau tangles his fingers in Eliot’s hair, tugs him forward. 

Moreau keeps talking, the entire time, never misses a beat or even so much as moans. His hips start thrusting once Eliot establishes a rhythm. Eliot does his best not to gag, eyes watering, uses all the tricks he’s learned over the years. 

It’s enough. Moreau hangs up the phone and grips Eliot’s hair with both hands, yanks so hard Eliot almost yelps. 

Eliot swallows, because he can tell Moreau’s the type who’d want that. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and doesn’t make eye contact, waits, still on the floor. Thankfully the carpet is sinfully soft, his knees don’t ache that much. 

“That will be all, Spencer,” Moreau says, dialing a new number. “For tonight.”

Eliot makes his way back to the kitchen and finds the bottle of wine. He takes it with him as he staggers to his room, drains it by the time he reaches his bed. 

He doesn’t have any nightmares that night, no dreams of any kind.


	2. Detective Bonanno/Shelley

It starts slowly. 

First it’s just the poker nights. They’re random, every month if possible, every three months in actual practice. And then, all of the sudden, the crew has relocated again, across the country. 

Patrick does miss them. Town is a lot less interesting without them around. It’s quieter though, which the wife appreciates. Patrick though, he’s never been much for quiet. 

It’s downright innocent at first. Shelley is back in town for a weekend and can’t remember the name of the restaurant they ordered from all those months ago. He calls Patrick and they catch up over a late-night pizza, drunken college students coming in and out of the joint and ordering with exaggerated enunciation. Patrick and Shelley catch up, as much as they can, between classified military missions and undercover police work. The pizza done, they part ways, Shelley promising to stay in touch more now that the team has left for the West Coast and, as he puts it, “You miss having dangerous friends, Bonanno.”

Patrick is surprised when Shelley keeps his word about staying in touch. 

~*~

The next time Shelley’s in town is because of a snowstorm grounding all the flights out of Logan. The city grinds to a halt as the snow piles up, the T shutting down in some areas completely. 

“Well, now what?” Shelley asks, arms folded, staring across the snowy streets.

“I know a place that’s always open.” Patrick promises. 

He takes Shelley to Bova’s, drags him through the winding, silent streets until they reach the only lighted storefront in the entirety of the North End. It’s crowded inside, locals and college students eagerly eating the baked goods and chatting with each other. Shelley looks surprised, but follows Patrick’s lead, and they’re soon tramping through the snow again, paper bags clutched in their hands. 

“You got somewhere to stay tonight?” Patrick asks. He’s heard that the hotels are all booked up.

“I’ll figure something out.” Shelley shrugs. 

That’s not good enough for Patrick. He offers up the guest bedroom without thinking, and suddenly he’s sitting at the kitchen table eating Bova’s pastries with Shelley at 3am.

“Your wife here?” Shelley licks chocolate from his fingers. 

“Yeah.” Patrick averts his eyes. 

“And she’s fine with a strange man sleeping in her house?”

“We’ve hosted stranger houseguests than you over the years.” Patrick promises. 

“Really? I’m wounded,” Shelley presses a hand over his heart. 

“You shouldn’t be.” Patrick assures him. 

That turns into a conversation of the strangest characters they’ve run into over the years, Shelley winning by a narrow margin and Patrick accusing him of cheating. As a Boston cop, he doesn’t exactly run into many eccentric dictators on the job. 

Pastries eaten, Patrick shows Shelley to the guest room. 

“It’s not much, but at least it’s a bed,” Patrick says, gesturing inside the small room.

Shelley draws the curtains and sweeps the room quickly, to which Patrick takes no offense. A man in Shelley’s line of work can only be so trusting. 

“You didn’t have to do this. Thanks,” Shelley says as he sits down the bed and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

There’s a moment where Patrick’s gaze lingers a little too long on Shelley’s chest. 

Shelley leans back on the bed, shirt open, tilting his head curiously. 

“Goodnight.” Patrick says, and shuts the door. 

~*~

This vacation was Wendy’s idea. Patrick went to Europe in college, did some backpacking with friends, but it never really drew him back. Rome is lovely, good food, architecture he has to admit is pretty nice, and Wendy seems happier than she’s been in years. She’s practically glowing, going from gallery to museum to tourist-crowded fountain and towing Patrick along with her. Patrick doesn’t mind, takes her picture next to every square inch of the city, and entrusts his camera to a few fellow tourists in order to have some pictures of him and Wendy kissing by some fountain or statue or crowded tour bus. 

One afternoon Wendy takes a nap after lunch and Patrick, restless, decides to roam around. He tries following a walking tour on his phone and eventually gives up, getting happily lost in the winding alleys. Patrick finds neighborhoods, away from the hustle and bustle of the city center, and doesn’t see a backpacker or a Canadian with a camera for a good twenty minutes. 

He finds a local café and buys some coffee, checking his phone for his location. Patrick is trying to figure out how long it’ll take to get back to the hotel from here, when he suddenly gets a call. The number isn’t recognized by his phone, but he answers, expecting a confused telemarketer.

“I know you’re in Rome, can I trust you?”

“Shelley?” Patrick blinks. “I … how did you …”

“I promise I will explain everything later, but right now, I need help, and you’re my closest ally. Can I trust you?”

Patrick is already pulling out his wallet one-handed and putting down the coffee’s price and a tip. “Yes. What do you need?”

“Buy some tacky I Love Rome hat or something. I’m going to text you an address. I need you to come inside and walk me out. Two tourists together isn’t going to raise suspicions, a man of my description alone will. I’m pinned down here and I can’t get out.”

“On my way.”

Patrick grabs the first tourist t-shirt he can find and pays the overpriced fee without question. He enters the place – a cheap hotel – and goes to the room Shelley texted him.

They leave quickly, Shelley now clad in the t-shirt and wearing a Canadian backpack stuffed with a metal case that Patrick pointedly does not ask questions about. 

“Oh Christ,” Shelley hisses. “He’s seen me … ok, new plan,” he grabs Patrick by the shoulders and leans against him, breath hot on Patrick’s neck. “We’re going to get on that vespa and outrun him, ok?”

“Don’t know how to drive one …” Patrick whispers, reaching up and looping an arm around Shelley’s waist. To play along, is what he tells himself. 

“I’ll drive. You just hang on.” Shelley leans back and laughs, as if at some suggestive comment Patrick must have made, and leads him to a nearby vespa. 

Patrick catches sight of a pair of goons, dark suits, sunglasses, matching scowls, making their way through the crowds of tourists towards them. 

“Hang on!” Shelley revs the tiny engine and they speed away.

Patrick does. It’s nothing like a motorcycle, which Patrick has ridden on several times in his life. Motorcycles can comfortably fit two passengers. Vespas, it seems were designed for a single person, or two people joined at the hips. Patrick clings to Shelley’s waist in earnest now, praying that the close proximity of the man and the adrenaline rush doesn’t produce any embarrassing reactions from him. 

He cranes his neck and sees the two goons on vespas of their own, giving chase.

“They’re after us!” he yells.

“I can lose them! Just keep holding on!” Shelley speeds up, turning a corner at a sickening angle and narrowly dodging a car. 

After circling a fountain five times, skidding up narrow alleyways, and avoiding crowds of tourists, they eventually lose the two goons on their twin Vespas. They ditch their Vespa behind a dumpster and Shelley delivers the briefcase to a man in the back of a restaurant. 

“Do I want to know?” 

“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” Shelley grins. “So, where to now? My turn to show you a secret bakery?”

Tempting as that is, Patrick isn’t up for that right now. He wants to change things between himself and Shelley, and there’s really only one way to even begin to attempt that. 

“I think,” Patrick says, coming to a decision that he really should have made months ago. “I think it’s time you met my wife.”

Shelley blinks, tilting his head, and considers Patrick for a moment. “Didn’t think you were that type,” he says at last.

“So you thought I was the type who’d cheat on my wife?” Patrick crosses his arms and glares.

“Hey, it’s not my place to judge!” Shelley holds up his hands. “I’d love to meet her.”

“Good,” Patrick nods. “And after that, it is your turn to show off a hidden bakery.”

It’s not a bakery that Shelly shows them, but a hidden restaurant. Tucked away down a winding alley, with a host who offers them the best table in the place and brings them some very impressive wine and refuses to let them pay for anything, all the while talking up Shelley as the man who saved their entire family. 

Wendy is impressed, and intrigued, and willingly clinks her glass with Shelley’s. 

Patrick joins the toast and smiles.


	3. Eliot/Quinn

“Damnit.” Eliot growls, staring out across the snowy roads. Nobody’s getting anywhere tonight, nor, according to the internet, tomorrow morning. Flights have been grounded, and rightly so, this is one of the biggest storms of the year. Five feet of snow is expected by dawn.

“Hey, just think of all the kids excited for Santa. It’s snowing, Christmas Eve …” Quinn grins.

“Good for them, not for me. I should be halfway across the Atlantic by now.” Eliot glares into the snowy darkness. “I haven’t missed a Christmas with them in ten years.”

Quinn blinks. Right. Eliot’s team. Quinn’s a trusted ally, a good partner now and again when Eliot wants backup of the muscle-y sort, but he’s not … what they are. He doesn’t have what they have. A decade of working together is a very long time in this sort of business, and the Leverage team had been through more than most in their first few years together alone. Such events bind people together. Quinn has yet to find a team or even an organization that can give him that kind of closeness, that can inspire that kind of loyalty. 

“Parker would love this,” Eliot says, leaning in the doorframe, still staring out into the snow. “One year, I swear, Hardison made it snow for her. Sweetest fuckin’ thing you’ve ever seen in your life, grown woman going out into a Christmas snow. That smile …” Eliot shakes his head, smiling himself. 

Quinn grins. “Hey, come on, you’re letting all the warm air out. Snow’s not going anywhere, and neither are we.”

Eliot nods, and shuts the door, brow furrowed. “I just, I miss them, you know?”

Quinn doesn’t, but Eliot’s already looking pretty down as it is, he’s not going to add his troubles to Eliot’s. “You wanna cook something while I get the fireplace going?”

Eliot nods and heads for the small kitchenette. Quinn sets about building the fire. 

This turns out to be a good plan, because by the time Eliot’s finished cooking and the fire is crackling and blazing steadily, the power flickers, holds for a moment, and then goes out. 

Eliot groans. “Hardison could fix that.”

Quinn nods, fumbles around in his bag for a flashlight, and starts taking blankets down from the shelves in the storage closet. “Well, we’re not gonna freeze to death at least.” The house is well insulated, the fire is steady, and they have enough kindling to last a week. 

“And we’re not gonna starve either,” Eliot brings over two plates. 

They eat in silence. It’s a comfortable silence though, a rarity for Quinn being this close to another professional. He doesn’t have to worry about whether the food’s been poisoned, or if relaxing will indicate he’s put his guard down and someone can attack him. Quinn doesn’t have to keep his back to a wall, or his knife in easy reach. 

As they eat, they start pulling blankets over themselves. The room isn’t cold by any means but there’s a chill too far from the fireside. By the time they’ve finished with their plates, Eliot and Quinn have gravitated towards each other, huddled in the blankets, so many layers between them that they’re hardly touching by any stretch of the imagination. 

Quinn feeds another log onto the fire and retreats into the nest of blankets. He leans, slightly, blankets shifting and his shoulder finding Eliot’s. 

Quinn stares at the fire, trying to think of what to say, what he could possibly say to Eliot right now that would convince him. 

Eliot speaks up at last, when it’s so obvious he apparently can’t pretend to ignore it anymore. “You ain’t them,” he says.

Quinn’s heart sinks. “Yeah, I know.”

“You ain’t gonna replace them.”

“Not looking to.”

“Good.” Eliot eyes Quinn. “So, how does this play out?”

Quinn shrugs, then pulls the slipping blankets tight over his shoulders. “That’s up to you. You got a clause in that marriage contract? What happens on business trips doesn’t count?”

Eliot snorts. “Ain’t a marriage.”

“Like hell it ain’t.” Quinn retorts. 

Eliot sighs, conceding the point. “I guess you could call it that.”

“Ten years,” Quinn mimes a toast with an invisible glass. “Congratulations.” 

Eliot leans forward and kisses him. 

It’s not like Quinn had imagined being kissed by Eliot Spencer would feel. (And oh, he has imagined, countless times, lonely nights, panting in the dark with his hand on his cock, imagining it was Eliot’s instead.) He’d imagined Eliot would be rough, attacking, pressing forward, pushing Quinn down and fighting until Quinn couldn’t fight back anymore. 

But Eliot is … gentle. Not chaste, there’s too much tasting going on, too much promise in the hand reaching up to tangle in Quinn’s hair. But he’s more like a romantic lead in some cheesy movie than the fighter Quinn’s come to know over the years.

“Sentimental in your old age?” Quinn teases, when they break apart.

“Don’t test me, boy,” there’s a hint of a growl to his tone. Quinn finds he quite likes that. 

“What if I do?” Quinn grins.

Eliot rolls his eyes. “That’s not how it’s gonna be.”

“Then how is it?”

Eliot shows him pretty quick after that, lays down some of the blankets and turns Quinn over. He’s good, better than most of the guys Quinn has been with over the years. Eliot is more than a pretty face and some of the deadliest skills on the planet. 

“You brought lube? On this mission?” Quinn gasps out as Eliot’s slicked fingers twist into him. 

“Parker always packs for me. She sneaks stuff like this in all the time. Just be grateful it’s not some hideous candy flavor.” 

There’s a story there, but Quinn is having a hard enough time keeping Eliot here in the room with him, he’s not going to risk asking about past hookups. 

Eliot doesn’t say Quinn’s name when he comes, which was probably too much to hope for on Quinn’s part. Quinn slumps into the blankets, cock throbbing, and is surprised when Eliot leans down and wraps his arms around Quinn. Then his hands are on Quinn’s cock and it’s over embarrassingly quickly but it feels so good, and Eliot stays there, holding him. Quinn realizes that Eliot has fallen asleep, pulls the blankets down over their bodies, and drifts off himself. 

When he wakes up Eliot’s not in the blankets with him. The fire has been built up again, there’s breakfast on the table, and Eliot is fully dressed and checking his phone. 

“Roads are being cleared, flights resume by mid-afternoon. I’m gonna head out soon.”

Quinn starts pulling his clothes on.

“Where you headed?” Eliot asks, eyes still fixed on his phone. 

“Brisbane.”

“You got family there?”

Quinn hides a scowl with difficulty. “No. Work.”

Eliot nods. 

Breakfast is delicious, of course it is, Eliot fucking Spencer made it. Quinn chokes it down and tries not to feel like some used one-night stand, which he probably was. He tries to reason that if that’s the most he’ll get from Eliot Spencer that it was worth it, every second. It still stings, knowing that Eliot’s headed home as soon as possible without a second thought. 

Eliot leaves in two hours, on a truck clearing the roads (no doubt a connection from a former job.) He offers to give Quinn a ride to the airport, but Quinn declines, says he’d rather wait it out for a few more hours and call a cab once they’re back up and running. 

The power’s on again once Eliot is driving away.

Quinn stares at the guttering fire for a very long time.


End file.
